Breaking Even
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: FINISHED Part 6 up...A rickety deck, a broken bone, and some drugs...what could possibly go wrong? GS WIP
1. Danger

A/N: I'm taking some liberties with the treatment of and recovery from a fractured femur, since the only part I'm trained in is on-scene emergency care (yay EMT class). The major aspects are correct, as far as I am aware, but things like recovery times and the leg's appearance after surgery, I've fudged a little.

The boards hadn't looked that rickety to Grissom. The first section had borne his weight easily enough, and he hadn't been walking particularly softly, but diasaster struck when he tried to move on.

With only about a quarter of his body transferred to it, the next board snapped, triggering a chain reaction that took out the next five feet of the deck he'd been exploring. Caught completely by surprise, he'd shifted his weight forward before he could catch himself. He recovered just quickly enough to use his hands to stop the fall as his right leg slipped through the newly-formed hole, followed by two cinder blocks from the pile that the homeowner had stored on the deck. As his hands met the solid planks on either side of him, he heard a cry from below that cut off abruptly.

Within seconds, he'd pulled himself up and was heading for the stairway leading to the ground. He had a good idea of what that shout had meant, but was praying he was wrong.

As he descended the stairway, his fears were confirmed when the silence that had followed was broken by someone's yell of, "Sara!"

"I'm fine," Sara was protesting a few minutes later. "I don't need an ambulance!"

Catherine, who had one of Sara's arms across her shoulders, snorted. "You have an open fracture of your femur. You're not fine."

"I know _that_," she replied indignantly. "But I am not riding in an ambulance when we have two perfectly good SUVs and a police car sitting right here."

Brass, supporting her other arm, leaned slightly behind Sara so he could meet Catherine's eyes. They both knew that the department's standard procedures dictated that EMS to be called in a situation like this, but neither said anything; the scene was unsafe now anyway and couldn't be examined by CSI until it had structural support, so they saw no reason not to bend the rules. "Ok," he said after a few seconds. "I've got the big flashing lights; I'll take you in my car."

Sara let out a relieved breath. "Thank you...ow!" Without thinking, she had tried to put weight on her injured leg.

At her yelp of pain, the whole procession - Catherine, Brass, two uniforms, and Grissom - stopped short and looked at her in surprise.

"I _told_ you not to put it down!" Catherine scolded. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes," Sara muttered. "Just put me in the car." She had been holding herself together up to this point, but as they started forward, a sudden wave of exhaustion mixed with self-pity rolled over her and she let her head droop and closed her eyes as Catherine and Brass more or less carried her to the police car.

Grissom, walking a few feet behind and feeling like this was all his fault, saw her go limp and felt a sharp bolt of panic. He hurried his steps, catching up with them. "Is she..."

"I'm fine," Sara mumbled before he could finish. "Stop freaking out."

"Someone should ride with you to the hospital," Grissom told her.

"Right. Brass already said he is," she answered, confused.

"No, I mean besides that. To support your leg while he drives. We don't have a splint, but we need to apply traction."

It was a valid point, but she didn't like that it was Grissom who'd come up with it. Who was going to just drop everything and go along for the ride? Certainly not him; he'd said a total of 15 words since the accident - 10 of them in the last 30 seconds - and she had a feeling he wasn't going to jump up and volunteer. "No one has time for that," she said stiffly. "I can steady my own leg." Her face contorted suddenly as the muscle in her thigh spasmed.

Grissom looked around at the others, waiting for someone to set her straight, and was annoyed when no one spoke up. She'd been hurt on the job and none of these people were willing to give up half an hour to get her to the hospital with a minimum of pain? "I'll do it," he finally said.

She didn't think the annoyance could have been any clearer in his voice. He was obviously irritated that the others hadn't volunteered and now he had to do it. "I said, I can do it myself," she said, glaring at him.

"Better figure it out in the next few seconds," Catherine broke in, opening the door to the backseat.

"I don't need you," Sara said harshly to Grissom, ignoring Catherine. Without giving him time to answer, she ducked her head and helped Brass and Catherine slide her onto the seat so that her leg was stretched out across it with a towel beneath to catch the blood oozing sluggishly from the wound.

"_I'm coming_," Grissom said, just as obstinately, and climbed in after her, careful not to jar her foot.

Brass shot Catherine a pleading look as he got into the driver's seat, trying to communicate _don't leave me alone with these two!_ but she just shrugged and waved goodbye. With a sigh, he settled himself in the car and hoped they wouldn't kill each other before he got them to the hospital. And if they did try to kill each other, he hoped the bulletproof divider between the front and back seats would protect him from their fire.

"Here we go, guys." He hit the master switch for the light bar to set it flashing wildly and stepped on the gas as hard as he dared with an injured woman in the backseat.

"Seatbelt, Sara," Grissom was saying behind him.

"My leg is broken. I am sitting the wrong way on the seat. I am _not_ putting on my seatbelt! If you're so worried about keeping my leg steady, then you can just hold on to me if we stop suddenly."

He ignored her and pulled out the seatbelt that went with the seat where most of her body was, twisting it around her to fit it into the buckle on the other side of her. "Only your leg is broken, and I, for one, would like to keep it that way. A broken neck would not add to your fun."

He ran his thumb under the seatbelt, trying to straighten out the twists so it didn't dig into her. She watched him do it, saying nothing, and then turned her face away.

Before the atmosphere between them could get any tenser, the car hit the first in a series of potholes. "Sorry!" Brass called through the glass. "I'm trying to avoid as many as I can!"

Sara's face had gone white when Grissom looked back at her, and it was contorted in pain. Her hands were fisted tightly, lying on her thighs.

Despite her obvious pain, she didn't make a sound. She hadn't when the blocks had fallen on her, crushing her leg, either, Grissom thought - it had been Brass's shout that he heard. Wanting to do something, anything, he reached out and covered one of her fists with his hand.

Her tense body jumped at the contact and her eyes flew open. "Don't," she managed through her clenched teeth. "Don't touch me."

He didn't know if it was because she was in pain or because she didn't like him, but he pulled his hand back. "I'm going to have to hold onto your leg. It's probably going to hurt at first, ok? But it will help the muscle stop clenching and keep your skin from tearing any more." Stopping himself, he closed his mouth; not only was he babbling, but he was babbling probably the most un-comforting words possible.

He was busy berating himself for this when he was surprised to hear Sara whisper, "Ok."

Not sure he'd heard her right, he leaned over toward her. "Sara?"

Her eyes opened again and locked on his. "Do it," she said tightly.

With the lightest touch he could, he wrapped his hands around her ankle and pulled gentle traction on it. Sara let out a hiss of pain, but said nothing as he experimented with how much force he could use without really hurting her.

"You guys ok back there?" asked Brass, without looking away from the road, a few minutes later. "I'm pulling into the hospital lot now. Want me to take you right up to Emergency?"

"Yes," Grissom said, wanting to collapse in relief that she would be taken care of soon.

"Ok, gimme one second." Brass maneuvered the car between two ambulances in the EMS bay, turned off the engine, and jumped out, opening the backseat door for Grissom. "How are we going to do this?" he asked, noticing Sara's pallor.

"I'm not sure," Grissom began, but was interrupted as the doors to the ER hissed open and two EMTs walked out. Brass, taking one look at them, dropped his head into his hands and groaned. "What?" Grissom asked, taken aback.

"Oh my god," Sara muttered in his ear. "Don't let him see me."

Grissom was really confused now. "Who?"

Sara said nothing, just refused to be moved until the EMTs had gotten into their ambulance and driven off. While Grissom tried to convince her to get out, Brass headed into the ER to commandeer a wheelchair. As much as it would make them feel virile, Grissom acknowledged, neither of them was up to carrying her all the way in.

Along with Brass and the wheelchair came a stately-looking doctor who appeared to know the detective. He looked at the car, then back at Brass. "Why isn't she cuffed?"

Sara's eyes widened accusingly, but before she could say anything, Brass had clapped a hand on the doctor's shoulder and turned him away. "She's not an arrest. She's a CSI, got hurt working a scene. My car was the most convenient way to get her here."

"Well, in that case," the doctor said, turning back to Sara and nodding apologetically, "it's nice to meet you, although of course not under such circumstances. I'm Dr. Mack. Most people just call me Mack." He stepped out of the doorway and approached Sara and Grissom. "I'd offer a handshake, but you both look occupied." No one laughed, and there was an awkward moment of silence before the doctor regrouped. "Hmm, that one didn't go over well. How about we get you out of this car and so I can take a quick look at you?"

Between the three men, they managed to slide Sara out of the car and into the wheelchair without causing any major pain. The doctor crouched down so his eyes were level with Sara's and studied her face. "How do you feel, other than the pain in your leg?"

"Fine," Sara answered almost before he had the words out of his mouth.

"She seems very tired," Grissom overruled. "And she's not normally this pale. There's been some bleeding, and I know there can be significant blood loss with femur fractures, so...

"Grissom!" she said sharply, cutting him off. "I'm fine," she repeated to the doctor. "Other than the leg."

"Hmm." The doctor didn't answer her, only drew her hand out to check her pulse, then pressed on a fingernail on each hand. After a minute, he stood up. "You seem to be in pretty good shape, considering. Your circulation is adequate and your pulse is regular. I know you're in a lot of pain, so let's get you inside and see what we can do for you," he said with a smile.

Brass and Grissom watched Mack wheel Sara through the doors, then looked at each other. "You going to stay?" Brass asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"Yeah." Grissom ran a hand down the side of his face. "I'm the one who fell on her, I think I owe her that much."

"_You_ didn't fall on her. The bricks did. And it wasn't your fault."

Grissom shrugged, clearly not willing to argue the point. "Do me a favor, when you get back can you go to the lab and tell everyone she's ok? And I guess..." He paused, looking at his watch. "Tell them I'll call if anything changes."

Grissom trailed the wheelchair into a curtained cubicle, feeling helpless as the ER staff lifted her onto the bed and efficiently checked her for other injuries. "Out," a nurse ordered him as the activity around her bed began to increase. "We need to get her pants off," she explained when he just looked blankly at her. "We'll call you back in when everything's taken care of."

He looked to Sara, wanting her to overrule the nurse, wanting her to need him, but her eyes were closed as an ER tech gently peeled off the shoe and sock on her injured leg. He wasn't sure she even knew he was there.

"Sir, please," the nurse coaxed. "We're not kicking you out, just asking you to give her a little privacy for a few minutes."

Casting one last worried look toward the woman in the bed, he obeyed.

"Hi, Sara," the nurse said conversationally as she turned back from closing the curtain.

"Hi."

"We're going to need to cut your pants, ok?"

Sara wondered if anyone actually said _no_, more concerned about their pants than their limbs, at this point. "That's fine." The tech made quick work of her lightweight trousers, handling the clothing shears in a way that made it clear that this was a common occurrence for the hospital.

As the pants fell to each side of her leg, the nurse gently touched her thigh. "Ok. You're not bleeding too badly, but while we wait for Dr. Mack, we're going to try to get it stopped entirely and clean you up a bit." She went to work with some damp gauze, casually adding, "Do you have any pain anywhere else? Headache, tingling in your arms or legs?"

"My head hurts a little, but I get a lot of headaches and it doesn't hurt any more than normal."

When the doctor pushed through the curtain a few minutes later, the first thing he did was use a penlight to check her pupils. Apparently finding nothing wrong there, he bent over her leg for a moment, then straightened up and patted her hand, saying, "Don't worry, we're going to get a morphine drip set up for you."

While the nurse slipped the IV into her, Dr. Mack circled around and touched her foot. "I'm just checking your pulse." A short pause. "Ok, feels good. Now wiggle your toes for me...good." He stood up and gave her a reassuring smile. "You're in very good shape, for someone who's just broken a long bone. Next time you see him, you should thank Detective Brass for rushing you here."

"Mmm," Sara breathed as she felt the painkiller start to course through her system. "Are you going to set it?"

"More or less, yes. But we're going to need to use a steel rod, which means surgery."

She wished she could refuse - surgery was not her idea of a fun way to spend the night - but knew that now would not be a good time to be stubborn. "How long?"

"Until we do it? The orthopedist happens to already be on-site, so we're going to start prepping you right now and then bring you to him."

"Oh." She was quiet for a moment, and then: "Did someone come in here with me?"

The nurse who had spoken to Grissom said, "Yes, there's a gray-haired gentleman outside the curtain. I didn't get his name."

"Grissom. Could you tell him about the surgery, and that I'm ok?"

"You can tell him yourself, if you'd like. He looks eager to see you."

"Oh...am I covered?" Sara asked, feeling toward where her pants had been removed.

"I'll throw a blanket over you, how's that?"

"Ok." As the nurse turned away from her, Sara closed her eyes and tried to relax.

"Sara?" his tentative voice came, a few seconds later.

"Hi. I'm ok."

Not sure what to say to that obviously untrue statement, he just replied, "Ok."

"They have to do surgery on my leg."

Grissom's eyes shifted to the doctor. "What kind of surgery?" he demanded.

"Femur fractures cannot be casted in most circumstances. It would require an almost full-body cast. For adults in this situation, we usually stabilize it from the inside out, using a steel rod. Since her leg will have to be opened up to insert the rod, it calls for general anesthetic."

"And she'll recover full use of it?"

"Grissom!" Sara groaned. "Leave it alone."

Ten minutes later, he watched, feeling impotent, as Sara was wheeled past the surgical waiting room where he sat.

Catherine answered her phone with her usual, "Willows."

"Catherine, it's Grissom."

"Where are you? Brass came in and told us that he had just dropped you two off and he didn't know anything else...is she ok? Are you still with her?"

"We're both still at the hospital. She's in surgery."

"Surgery? It was that bad?"

"The doctor said the only practical way to set a mid-shaft femur fracture is by implanting a rod into the bone." He rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. Every time he thought about them cutting Sara open, his headache got a little worse.

"Oh, no," Catherine said softly. "Does she know you're there?"

"I saw her for a few minutes before they took her into the OR. She was...in a lot of pain, I think. But I couldn't tell for sure; you know how she is."

"Yeah, we all do." She sighed. "Listen, Gil, this isn't your fault. Any one of us could have been walking on that deck, and any one of us could have been the one underneath. And if those bricks hadn't been there, nothing would have happened anyway."

"I know that, objectively. But you didn't see her lying on the hospital bed. She just looked...fragile. And Sara shouldn't look like that. And she wouldn't look like that if I hadn't been so clumsy."

"You're not going to believe me, are you?"

"Not if you're going to keep saying I'm not culpable."

"Ok, then. I won't. But I do have good news for you - we were slow tonight, so I gave Nick and Brass your spare car key and they dropped your car off in the hospital lot. Whenever you can get her out of there, you don't need to worry about a ride home."

"Thanks," he said. The thought of a ride home hadn't even occurred to him, and he was glad someone had a cool head on their shoulders and had taken care of it. "Really."

"Not a problem. I did have to convince them that they couldn't just barge into the hospital while they were there, though. Do us a favor and call back when she comes out of surgery, ok? Or if anything else changes? We're all worried about her too."

"Yeah." He slumped back onto the vinyl-covered seat. "Yeah, I will."

"Is there a Mr. Grissom in here?" a nurse said two hours later, poking her head into the waiting room. When Grissom jumped up, she smiled. "Ms. Sidle is out of surgery. She's in the recovery room, if you'd like to come see her - but she's still groggy."

He was almost afraid to follow the woman. Sara had looked so wounded before she went in, how would she look now with the ugly marks of surgery on her?

"Third bed in on the left," she said. "The surgeon's with her."

He walked slowly to the bed, waiting for her to move, to show some sign of life. "Sara?" he managed in a hoarse whisper as he approached her.

Her eyes fluttered open and her hand clenched on the blankets. "Gris? Wha-- what's going on?"

She was more than groggy - she seemed incoherent! Grissom looked accusingly at the doctor, who shrugged sympathetically. "Anesthesia can lead to unusual effects as a person is shaking it off. I've had people start crying hysterically as they open their eyes, for no reason. Sara should be fine in ten minutes or so."

"Is she...I mean, did you fix her leg? Is it set?"

"She came through like a trooper. She's going to have a fairly long period of limited activity and rehab ahead of her, but if all goes as it should, her leg will be good as new."

"Grissom?" Sara rasped from the bed, sounding less confused. "Is that you?"

"It's me," he said, forgetting about the doctor as he moved to stand by Sara's head. Her hair, normally straight and shiny, looked limp and lank against the plain white pillowcase, and without thinking he brushed a piece of it off of her face. "How do you feel?"

She licked her lips. "Mmm...woozy."

"Do you know what happened?"

She thought for a second. "Yeah. I...broke my leg, right? At a scene?"

"Actually," Grissom said, feeling another pang of guilt, "it's more like, _I_ broke your leg."

After a moment of considering that, Sara smiled slightly. "Then I'll just have to break yours once I can manage it."

Moving her eyes to the doctor, Sara said, "When can I go home?"

Grissom smiled a little at that. The doctor had been right; now that the anesthetic was wearing off, Sara seemed to be rebounding just fine. "I second that question," he said to the doctor. "When _can_ I take her home?"

"Well, certainly not until the anesthesia's completely worn off," the surgeon told Sara. "After that, we'll get you set up with a prescription for painkillers and a general rehab plan, and if you're still doing fine then, you can get out of here."

"Crime lab," Nick answered the phone. "Stokes speaking."

"Nick, it's Grissom."

"Oh! Hold on a second." He covered the mouthpiece and turned around, calling for Catherine, Warrick, and Brass. A minor stampede ensued as all three of them hustled into the room and jockeyed for positions close to the earpiece of the phone. When they'd arranged themselves, Nick uncovered the mouthpiece. "Ok Gris, go ahead."

"She just got released from the hospital," Grissom began. "The surgery went well and the doctor thinks she'll recover without much difficulty. I'm about to take her home now."

"How does she feel?" Catherine shouted over Nick's shoulder.

They heard Grissom's muffled voice say, "Sara? They want to know how you feel." He paused, listening. "She says 'sleepy'. They stuffed her full of Vicodin before they let us go," he explained.

"Are you going to stay with her once you get her home?"

He blinked. "I, uh...hadn't thought about that."

"Tell him that someone's going to have to stay with her!" Catherine hissed at Nick, who dutifully repeated this to Grissom. "One of us will do it if you can't," Nick added, giving Catherine a half-hearted shove away from the phone. "But we need to know, one way or the other."

Grissom sighed. They were right that someone needed to be with her, and if he was honest with himself, if he left her now he'd just spend the rest of the day worrying about her. "I'll do it."

Nick heard the lack of enthusiasm in Grissom's voice and assumed he wasn't looking forward to staying with an injured Sara. "If you need someone to spell you, or just help out, you call us, ok?"

"Ok, Nick. I will."

"Sara?" Grissom said softly as he parked his car. "We're here."

Sara had dozed off during the ride to her apartment, and her only answer was a grunt.

Grissom climbed out of his seat and walked around to the back, where Sara was securely seatbelted in. "Come on, Sara...I need you to wake up for a few minutes, and then you can go right back to sleep, ok?"

"Mmmph." But she opened her eyes and tried to focus on him as he leaned over and released her seatbelt.

"Stay there for a second," he said, realizing that he'd gone about this backwards. He should have gotten the wheelchair out of the trunk first, and _then_ come around to get Sara. "I'm shutting the door, but I'll be right back."

He retrieved the folding wheelchair the hospital had lent them from the trunk and brought it to where he'd left Sara. "Ok, here we go. I need to get you into this wheelchair, Sara...Sara?" She had closed her eyes and seemed to have dozed off again, this time with a dreamy smile on her face. "Sara," he said, touching her shoulder cautiously, "wake up. Stay with me five more minutes and then you can sleep."

Sara sighed deeply. "I'm tired."

He knew he should blame the painkiller she'd been given, but he couldn't help feeling like he was the one who had reduced her to this injured, semi-coherent state. "Please?" he said quietly.

"You never say 'please'," Sara told him.

"I am now. Please, Sara, help me get you into the wheelchair."

"Well, you said please," she said, trying to sit up so she could lever herself into the chair.

Grissom's arms went around her sides, cutting off her retort. "Watch your leg. Tell me if I'm hurting you," he ordered, pulling her gently backwards on the seat. As her backside left the seat, he paused for a moment, wondering how he was going to do this. After a second, he realized that there was only one way to do it. "Tell me if I'm hurting you," he repeated, this time more sternly. "I need to put my...I have to...There's a drop," he finally managed. "I need to lower you about a foot, and need to put an arm under your legs to do that."

She said only, "ok," and watched his face, eyes wide, as he slid his hands under her and lowered her into the wheelchair.

"There we go," he said, jerking his hands away like they'd been burned. "Now we're set." Sara closed her eyes again as he wheeled her up the drive and unlocked the door with the key he'd fished out of her ruined trousers at the hospital..

"Where do you want me to put you?" he asked as he tried to maneuver the wheels over the threshold without jostling Sara.

"Hmm...couch is fine." She waved a hand at the corduroy-upholstered sofa. When Grissom had wheeled her there, she used her arms to push herself out of the chair, balancing on her good leg, and slide onto the couch. The soft, comforting feel reminded her of all the other times she'd lain upon the same couch, sick with a cold or the flu, alone in her apartment. This time there was someone else with her, she thought, but he'd be gone as soon as he could.

Grissom looked down at the woman lying on the couch, face pressed into the couch cushion like a child who was sacked out after a long day. Deciding to let her rest, he found her bedroom and gathered up the comforter and two pillows, dragging the bundle back to where Sara lay. He didn't want to wake her up, so he tried to slip one of the pillows under her leg as gently as possible. He needn't have worried; Sara had fallen into a deep sleep and didn't even twitch as he shifted first her leg, then her head to put pillows under them. He settled the comforter over her, tucking it around her sides as best he could, and stepped back to look at her.

It was the first time since the blocks had fallen on her that he could study her face without anyone asking him why, and he examined it for close to five minutes, feeling his guilt grow a little heavier as he catalogued each scrape and bruise on it. He was the reason she was lying there, and if he were in her position, he couldn't imagine ever forgiving the person who caused him such pain.

After about five minutes, he simply couldn't stand it anymore, and looked away, moving back to the counter where he had dropped the post-op instructions the hospital had sent Sara home with, along with the bottle of pills the pharmacy had provided her.

He picked up the sheet and scanned it, making notes on a legal pad he found on the counter: Sara was not to try to put weight on the leg for at least a week and should avoid most physical activity for about the same length of time; she should maintain a regular course of painkillers for about a week and then use them as needed; she was to avoid scratching or picking at the surgical staples holding the wound closed.

The more he read, the more he realized that Sara was going to need someone with her almost constantly, at least for the first week. He wasn't sure how he felt about that; after all, it would be an excuse for him to spend much-desired time with her...but it would be, at the absolute best, very _stressful_ much-desired time. At worst, one of them would murder the other. But he owed her that much, he thought. He couldn't forget that he was the one who'd caused this.

Catherine closed her cell phone and turned to the group of people staring at her expectantly. "Grissom decided to stay with her all week. He claims it's because she's so limited by the surgery, but I figure he's probably trying to atone."

"So...what?" Brass asked. "He's going to call in sick for the next seven days?"

"Close. He's using a week of the vacation time he's been hoarding for fifteen years."

"Whoa," Warrick said. "Heavy."

Nick just shook his head and sighed, "This is going to be an interesting week."

"Sara," Grissom said, shaking her shoulder later in the day, "come on, wake up. Time for another pill."

"No."

"Yes." He shook one of the capsules out of the bottle and waved it in front of her face. "If you don't, you're going to be in a world of hurt in an hour or so."

"Fine," she groaned. "Since you've got me awake now." She obediently took the pill and glass of water he held and swallowed the drug, then looked at him. "How long was I asleep?"

"About four hours," he said, idly tucking the comforter back around her.

"You sat here for four hours? Doing what?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much. Making sure you were ok, mostly."

She sat up, frowning at him. "Grissom, I'm fine. I'm plated and screwed and drugged - good as new!"

He held out the sheet of paper he'd been studying earlier. "Have you read the instructions the hospital sent you home with?"

"You know I haven't; I've been asleep."

"Well, if you had read it, you'd know that you're not to put weight on your leg for another week. Which makes you somewhat in need to assistance."

"I can manage."

"Possibly," he acknowledged. "But I'm concerned about you, so I'm not about to leave you here on your own."

She lay back down, looking at him skeptically. "So you're just going to sit here for a week, staring at me?"

"Of course not," Grissom replied with a small smile. "I cook and clean, too - it's all included in the price."

"Oh? And what, exactly, is 'the price'?"

Grissom blinked. "Uh...I don't know. Let's just say...that my price for cooking, cleaning, and caring for you while you recover is that you allow me to stay here while I do it."

She narrowed her eyes. "That's it?"

"Well, yes."

"Do you mean, like, overnight? You want to stay here for the next week straight?"

When he nodded tentatively, she added, "I don't have a guest room. There's nowhere for you to stay."

He thought about that for a moment. "You have a bed and a couch. I can use whichever you're not using."

"You're going to wear the same clothes for a week?"

He hadn't considered that. "Um, I could run back to my house and pack a bag. One of the other guys could stay with..."

He was interrupted by the sound of Sara's buzzer. He looked at Sara, who just shrugged and gestured toward the control box.

"Yes?" Grissom attempted into the intercom.

"Grissom? It's us," Catherine's tinny voice said. "Let us in!"

"Button on the right," Sara supplied before he could ask.

A few seconds later, Grissom was letting Catherine, Nick, Greg, Warrick, Brass, and Doc Robbins into Sara's small apartment. As they jostled for standing room, Grissom returned to Sara and whispered, "See? How would you have let them in if I wasn't here?"

"Oh, fine," she whispered back. "Go pack your bag."

"Good girl," he told her. He touched her cheek fleetingly, smiled, and turned away, addressing the crowd. "I need to run home for a few minutes. Will you guys stay here with Sara until I get back?"

"Of course," Robbins spoke for the group. "I wanted to get a closer look at our patient anyway."

As the door shut behind Grissom, the group, which had maintained a semblance of order up until then, broke apart and made a mad dash toward Sara.

"How are you feeling?" Nick asked, squatting down by her head.

"Did they give you good drugs?" Greg demanded, grabbing the pill bottle Grissom had left next to the couch.

"Leave those alone!" Catherine told him, grabbing them, then examining the bottle herself. "Ooh, Vicodin, very nice. How doped up are you right now?"

Sara couldn't help laughing, even though her leg had begun to throb. "I feel ok, considering. The drugs seem fairly good. I'm not nearly as doped up as I'd like to be, because I just took one about five minutes ago and it hasn't kicked in yet."

Doc Robbins, avoiding the chaos by Sara's face, pulled the blanket off of her legs and eyed the surgery site. "This was an open fracture?" he asked.

"Yep."

He leaned a little closer, squinting through his glasses. "They did a very good job. Not much swelling, although those staples are god-awful ugly." He looked up and smiled. "Even more impressive considering they were working on a patient who was still alive!"

"Oh," Brass said, rolling his eyes, "that's comforting." He looked at Warrick. "Are we the only sane ones here?"

Warrick shrugged. "I'm waiting for someone to move so I can steal their spot," he said with a grin.

"Guys!" Sara laughed. "Everyone calm down! I'm doing as well as someone who just cracked open their leg can do. It doesn't hurt much right now. I'm more annoyed at the fact that I can't use it for at least a week."

"For _how_ long?" Greg echoed.

"If Grissom is to be believed, for at least a week and possibly longer." She sighed. "Which sucks. I'm going to be bored out of my mind."

"Do you have someone who can stay with you?" asked Catherine, although she already knew the answer.

"It appears that Grissom's designated himself as my caregiver, though I don't have a clue why. You guys need to visit me _a lot_, please!"

"Aw," Brass teased, "you're not looking forward to being closeted with Gil 'Bugman' Grissom?"

"I can think of more painful things," Sara joked, "but not many."

A/N: I'm sorry if this shows up all run-together. The site and I seem to be having a major disagreement over what shows up on uploaded documents (hint: not line dividers or blank lines). I'm trying to figure it out, so bear with me :)


	2. Issues

"Eat," Grissom ordered, pushing a cup of pudding across the coffee table at her after he'd ushered everyone out an hour later. "You're not supposed to take this medicine on an empty stomach."

Sara groaned. "No, please. I'm not hungry, plus my stomach feels a little iffy. Food is _not _a good idea."

"Sara..."

"No."

"You want me to force-feed you?" he threatened.

"Please, Gris."

He shook his head. "Trust me. You have to eat or else your stomach will feel even worse." He pulled the plastic cover off of the pudding and handed her the cup and spoon. "Come on, just this little cup of pudding."

"I thought you said you cook," Sara said, reluctantly taking the food. "This isn't my idea of gourmet."

Grissom rolled his eyes. "Eat, Sara."

While Sara ate tiny spoonfuls of pudding, Grissom puttered around her apartment, evaluating her kitchen's stocks and facilities. He had just started to inventory her pantry when he heard a choked, "Uh...Grissom..." from the woman on the couch. Alarmed at the strange tone, he whirled around and looked at her just in time to see what little pudding Sara had swallowed hit the floor.

In a quick reaction he would have sworn he was years past being capable of, Grissom grabbed the nearest bucket-like receptacle and got it under her head in time for a second bout of retching.

Tears dripped down Sara's nose, which was running, and fell into the garbage can he'd put at her side. Wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she swallowed tentatively. "I'm...sorry," she managed. Staring at the damaged floor, she added, "I can't believe I did that."

"It's okay..."

"I'm so sorry," she repeated, covering her eyes as if she could wish it away.

"Hey," Grissom said, his own distress pushed aside in the face of hers. "It's ok."

"My god," Sara muttered. "I _can't believe_...I haven't had something like that happen since I was six."

"I told you the medication could mess with you," he said, kneeling by her head and pushing her hair out of her face. "It's not your fault."

Sara just groaned and put her hand to her mouth.

"You need the trash can again?" Grissom asked hastily.

"No," she said, wiping at her mouth with the hand she'd raised. "Actually, I feel ok now. No more nausea." She sighed, "Figures. Now that I've embarrassed myself..."

"Stop," he commanded over his shoulder as he went to search her kitchen for paper towels. "I promised to clean; this is part of my job now, remember?"

She moaned and refused to look at him. "You can't clean up my puke!"

"I can't _not_ clean it up, either," he pointed out, placing a box of tissues next to her on the couch. Pulling a spare pair of nitrite gloves out of his pocket and donning them, he added, "It's the lesser of the two evils. Besides, I've been sick before, I know how it is when your body refuses to obey."

Oh yeah, he knew how that could be - and what popped into his head as he said it did _not _involve sickness.

Well _that_ was less than appropriate, he scolded himself as he gathered up a wad of paper towels and dropped them over the mess. The poor woman was injured and sick, and he was sitting there thinking dirty thoughts instead of taking care of her! Hoping she hadn't noticed his pause, he focused back on the task at hand.

"I don't think I've ever been this embarrassed in my life," Sara said. "I don't lose control of myself like that!"

"Shush," Grissom ordered. "You have free rein for the next week to lose control of yourself if you need to. That's why I'm here: to take care of things so you don't have to."

She pulled a tissue out of the box he'd given her and wiped her eyes. "I hate throwing up."

"Don't we all? Stop worrying, this was hardly anything to clean up anyway. You ate what, four bites of pudding?"

"Guhhhh," was all Sara could manage as she laid her forearm over her eyes, trying to block out the light and the sight of Grissom mopping up her vomit. At least he wasn't preserving samples, she figured after a few seconds of trying to think of a positive angle on the situation.

"Sara, come on," Brass wheedled two days later. He was sitting on the edge of Sara's couch, holding a glass of water and the bottle of Vicodin, trying to convince her to accept them.

Grissom had called earlier in the day and asked him - well, 'begged him' was more like it - to come work on Sara. _She wouldn't listen to a word I said_, Grissom had sighed. _You play a better authority figure than I do; maybe she'll do it if you ask._

He'd arrived at Sara's apartment half an hour after his shift had ended and walked directly into a disaster. Sara was sulking on the couch and refusing to be moved, while Grissom was sitting at the breakfast bar clutching her medication and looking like he wanted to hit Sara with the pills, rather than feed them to her. "_Do_ something with her!" he barked before the detective was even over the threshold.

Brass, who hadn't been told the reason for this command performance, had taken one look at them, noting the set jaws and narrowed eyes of both combatants, and sighed. "What's going on in here?"

"She," Grissom said flatly, pointing an accusing finger at the woman on the couch, "refuses to take her painkillers."

Brass looked at Sara, then back to Grissom. "Maybe she doesn't need them," he attempted, although he doubted his own statement.

"Look at her hands."

Brass, confused, had walked to Sara and waited for her to show him whatever it was. She kept her arms folded across her chest and her hands well-hidden, and alternated glaring between him and Grissom. "Sara," he said sternly, holding out his own hand expectantly. "Show me."

With a huff and an overdone roll of her eyes, Sara had finally acquiesced and held out her right hand, palm up. A row of crescent-shaped scabs, each about half an inch across, ran along her palm. Brass had seen similar injuries before and knew that they were caused by digging one's fingernails into one's own hand, usually as an attempt to relieve stress or pain; however, he was used to seeing such cuts on those involved in violent crime, not accidental broken legs, and he found himself somewhat surprised to see them on Sara.

"Ok," he said, releasing Sara's hand and turning back to Grissom, "she's in pain. Why'd you call me?"

"Because she won't take the damn pills! Every time I try to get her to swallow one, she tells me she feels just fine and doesn't want opiates in her system unnecessarily. Then ten minutes later I see her digging into her palms again!"

Grissom was definitely agitated, and Brass knew he was not an easy man to upset. Being with Sara constantly must have been getting to the guy, he decided. And, well, Brass _had _promised Sara that he'd visit and try to keep them from killing each other. Still, refereeing this argument was not something he was looking forward to.

"Why won't you take the pills?" he asked Sara, trying to ignore the _look of death_ that Grissom was giving her.

"It doesn't hurt than much!" she insisted. "Honestly, I don't need them!"

"Ok," he said, and her face relaxed as she decided he believed the story. His next words, though, made her tense up again: "And what's the _real_ reason?"

Sara considered screaming, then decided that it would hurt her more than it would help her cause. She settled for a long "Arghhhh!"

"That's not an answer," Grissom cut in from his position across the room. "Answer the damn question."

That made two curses from Grissom in the past few minutes: another sign that things were very, very far from going well in this apartment.

"Sara?" Brass had prompted, raising his eyebrows. "He's right."

"For the love of god, they make me throw up!" she blurted out. "I'd rather be in pain and not puking, thank you very much."

Brass looked over his shoulder at Grissom, who gave him a shrug and a nod, confirming both Sara's statement and his own helplessness. "But Sara," Brass said, trying to sound logical, "even if it does make you throw up, that lasts what, 10 minutes? Whereas being in pain is pretty much constant, I'd expect."

"_You_ try throwing up on your own floor in front of another person and then having to watch them clean up your vomit, and _then_ tell me which is the better option."

"Sara," Grissom said, sounding tired, "we've been over this. That's what I'm here for."

_Impressive_, Brass thought. _He's willing to clean up the girl's vomit, it must be love_. He was silent for a moment, waiting for something, anything, to break the tension; when nothing did, he looked at Sara and shrugged. "You heard the man. He doesn't mind."

"I mind," she retorted, in a tone that made it clear that she wouldn't be swayed.

"Jesus!" Grissom stood up and threw the bottle of pills at Brass, who caught it just before it hit his chest. "You deal with her; I'm taking a shower." With that, he retreated into the depths of the apartment and disappeared.

Brass had sighed, gotten a glass from Sara's kitchen, and filled it with water. Two minutes later, he had been reduced to begging her.


	3. Cleanliness

"I won't," Sara repeated to Brass. "You might as well give up."

"What, and send Grissom back in here to strangle you, instead?"

She gave him a bored look. "He's just cranky because he's gotten about four hours sleep in the last two days."

Brass blinked. "Why?"

"Apparently," she said loudly, looking toward the hall Grissom had disappeared into, "my bed isn't _comfortable _enough for him."

A door slammed somewhere in the apartment, but Brass was too busy gaping at her to notice it. "Your...bed? _Your_ bed?"

"Stop it," she said, not amused by his implication. "Do I _look_ like someone who could get herself into the bed right now, let alone share it with someone? I've been out here on the couch since I got home from the hospital; Grissom took over my bedroom. Which," she added, raising her voice again, "isn't good enough for him!"

Grissom, goaded beyond endurance, yanked open the bedroom door, stomped out of the room, and snapped, "Well maybe if I didn't keep waking up every time I hear you make that squeaky noise you make when it hurts and you think no one's watching, I'd be sleeping better!" By the time he got to the last word of his rant, he had crossed the room and was standing by the couch and glaring down at her.

"Squeaky noise?" Brass repeated. "Sara squeaks?"

"Well, it's more of a high-pitched gasp, I guess," Grissom said, momentarily distracted.

"A high-pitched gasp," Brass echoed.

"Except at the end it turns into a squeak when she runs out of breath," Grissom added.

"I don't squeak!" Sara said, shoving at his leg, which was the only part of him she could reach without shifting her position. "You're making that up as an excuse."

"You do it at least ten times a night, Sara - every time you move your leg." He looked down, eyebrows raised as her hand hit his thigh again. "And by the way, you're not going to be able to move enough to kill me unless you get your leg to stop hurting."

She considered that for a moment. He had a point, but still... "I know ways to kill you other than beating."

"No kidding," Brass muttered. Sara and Grissom just glared at each other, saying nothing.

"Fine. Fine!" Grissom said after a full minute of the silent duel. "Don't take the pills, stay in pain, knock yourself out. And since you're _soo_ not in pain," he mocked, "then I'm sure you won't even need any aspirin or Tylenol." He strode to the kitchen and dug both bottles out of the cabinet, shoving them in his pockets, then returned to the couch.

"Gil," Brass said tentatively, "don't you think that's a little -"

"Fine," Sara interrupted him. "Take them, I don't care. I don't need them."

"Sara..." Brass tried, deciding Grissom was a lost cause.

"Leave, Jim," Grissom ordered, not moving his eyes away from Sara's face.

"Now wait just a minute! I'm not going to--"

"_Leave_," Sara echoed. "You can't change my mind anyway, and I can't deal with Grissom if you're here."

That sounded rather intriguing, Brass thought. "Dealing" with Grissom could be anything from killing him to getting him in b-... _Whoa, now._ _Either way, that's not a mental image I need, _he interruped himself. _I might as well get out before she kills me too._

"Ok, then. I'm going. But," he added, shaking a warning finger at them, "one of you better call me tonight so I know everyone's in one piece and not bleeding."

"_Go!"_ Grissom and Sara both shouted.

Shaking his head and wondering what the hell had just happened, Brass went.

They glared at each other silently for a few minutes after Brass shut the door behind him. Eventually, Sara set her jaw and turned away, sliding down on the couch and pretending to fall asleep.

"I know you're not asleep. Look at me," Grissom demanded.

"No."

"Yes." He sat down on the spot Brass had just vacated and took Sara's face between his hands, forcing her to turn her eyes toward him. "Look at me! I've been reduced to bribery: if you take the painkiller, you can pick any one thing you want me to do, and I'll do it." He thought about that for a second. "Unless it's illegal or immoral."

"If I take the painkiller," Sara reminded him, "what you'll be doing is cleaning up my puke." She sighed. "I'll take aspirin, how's that? Assuming you're willing to take the bottle out of your pants and hand it over."

He didn't like it, but he knew it was probably as much of a concession as he would get from her. "Ok, I'll settle for that. But reconsider the Vicodin in the meantime, ok? Please?"

Sara didn't respond to that, but she did turn onto her back so that Grissom no longer had to hold her head. She swallowed the aspirin Grissom handed her, then studied him for a moment as he bent over her. "Your hair is wet," she said, lifting one hand to touch it.

"I took a shower while you were arguing with Jim."

"Oh god, I would _kill _for a shower right now."

"As much as I'd like to accommodate you, there's just no way I can prop you up in the shower."

She ran a hand over her face, feeling the layer of sweat and grime that covered her skin. "I feel so disgusting. I must smell pretty rank too, since I haven't showered in, what...three days?"

"Nah, you don't smell that bad."

Giving him a _yeah, right_ look, she pointedly sniffed under one arm. "Yes, I definitely do. Come on Grissom, there's got to be a way to work it!"

"You're the physicist, Sara. I don't do mechanics."

Totally frustrated, she let out a growl. "Ok, fine. A bath. You don't have to prop me up for a bath, I'd just have to figure out how to effectively wash myself while sitting in the water. Which I can do." She nodded firmly. "I want a bath."

"Are you using that as your request for my bribe?"

"Of course not! I'm going to save that for something _good_. Right now, I'm just asking you to give me a hand, since you _have_ designated yourself my caregiver and all."

With an arm tightly around her waist, he helped her manage an awkward hop to the bathroom. As he sat her down on the closed toilet seat, they both regarded the bathtub cautiously. "How are we going to do this?" Grissom asked after a few seconds.

"Well, you could just put me in the tub like it is now. Then once I'm sitting I can get undressed and run the water and everything."

Relief, tinged with what might have been regret had he allowed himself to consider it, rushed through him. "I hadn't thought of that. You're right." Quickly, before either of them could react to it, he slipped one arm under her butt, the other around her back, and deposited her gently on the floor of the tub. "You need me to, uh, get you anything before I go?"

Sara thought about that. "I suppose a towel and washcloth would help. You know where those are. And, uh, something to change into when I come out. I have nightshirts in the second drawer of my dresser."

"Right!" he said brightly, not allowing himself to consider what else he might come across in Sara's drawers. "I'll be back in a minute with those."

He retrieved the towel and washcloth with little trouble, but in Sara's room found himself faced with a choice that strained his resistance. The second drawer in her dresser did, indeed, contain nightshirts; however, the selection ranged from a battered, frayed Harvard t-shirt in size XXL to a shiny, slinky nightdress that he couldn't help but run his fingers over. For a long moment, he considered indulging himself and taking her the sexy one, but then he decided that he wouldn't want to answer the questions that would go along with his bringing her that. He settled for the Harvard t-shirt, wondering as he unfolded it if it had once belonged to a boyfriend.

When he re-entered the bathroom, rather than seeing only the shower curtain he'd expected her to pull across the tub, he found Sara sitting, still fully-clothed, in an empty bath tub. As he laid the towel and nightgown on the toilet tank, he said, "Changed your mind?"

"Of course not!" she said, and he noted that her face was taking on a definite look of aggravation. "I need your help."

That caught him by surprise and his mind immediately jumped to all sorts of conclusions. Tuning out the clamoring voices in his head, he managed to give her a calm look and ask, "Help with what?"

"I, uh..." Her face started to turn red. "I can't get my pants off."

He stared at her, sure that she couldn't possibly be asking what he thought she was asking. "Oh."

"And," she managed through gritted teeth, "if I'm going to take a bath I need you to pull them off for me."

"Oh." He continued to look at her blankly for a second, and then her words penetrated his brain. "You want me to...undress you?"

"No!" She sighed. "Well, partially. I can manage my shirt and bra by myself. I just need you to get my pants and, uh...you know."

He closed his eyes for a second, wishing himself anywhere but here, with this woman.

"Grissom!" she said after a few seconds. "Stop looking like you want to run away. If _anyone_ should want to be somewhere else at this moment, it's me. And believe me, I do. So just do it!"

Swallowing hard, he knelt by the side of the tub and reached toward for the drawstring of the pants Catherine had put on her during her first visit. "This could seen as sexual harassment. You could sue me."

She sighed. "I promise not to sue you, ok? Just close your eyes and get it over with."

Keeping his fingers are far from her skin as he could, he untied the knot in the drawstring. "How do I...what's the easiest way to..." He stopped, collecting himself, then managed, "I don't wear drawstring pants. How do I get them off you with a minimum of pain?"

"Here." She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of the pants and pushed them down the few inches she could reach. "Now that they're past my hips, you can just pull from the bottom."

Grissom obeyed, neatly folding the pants and laying them alongside the t-shirt he'd brought her, then turned back to her, knowing that he had another layer to get through.

"Grissom," Sara said, meeting his eyes as he struggled not to look at her panties. "Would you close your eyes or look away or something while you do it?" When he obediently turned his head, she bit her lip and shoved the underwear down as far as she could, then moved his hands to them. "Pull."

He pulled, knowing that he'd be a lot less likely to do it wrong and hurt her if he could look, but aware of the fact that she would embarrassed if he did. Using both hands blindly, he inched the panties down her legs and past her feet, then pulled them away and dropped them on top of her folded pants, keeping his eyes on a spider web in the corner instead of on her.

"Thank you," Sara said quietly. "I'll call you when I'm dressed and need you to lift me back out."

"Ok." He stood, relaxing for the first time since he'd come into the room. He had let his guard down too soon, he realized a second later when he looked back to just give her a smile and momentarily forgot himself. Instead of giving her an innocent smile, he found himself ogling her long legs and the area between them.

He got lucky; Sara had turned her attention to unhooking her bra under her shirt and never noticed his wide eyes as he stared helplessly, then turned and nearly ran from the room.


	4. Breaking Point

Sara spent more than half an hour in the bath, savoring the feeling of being clean again. She couldn't believe she'd had to ask Grissom to take her clothes off. Was there anything she could have done that would have embarrassed both of them more? Probably not. With a sigh, she let the washcloth fall into the water with a _plop_ and lay back in the tub, tipping her head so the water covered her hair, which still had a bit of shampoo in it.

While Sara was enjoying her bath, Grissom was laying on his bed - her bed, that he'd commandeered - and counting the number of cracks in the ceiling, busy trying to avoid wondering what the hell he was going to do when she called him back into the bathroom. It wasn't that he was afraid he'd completely lose control and ravish her; he was more concerned that his control would just slip a little and he'd touch her or say something. The last thing he needed when he was spending a week with her was to make things even more uncomfortable than they already were.

Sara flipped open the drain in the bathtub and sat there, feeling silly, as the water drained around her. She'd decided to give this a try herself first, rather than call Grissom in. She'd only call him if she really couldn't do it. That would be better for both of them.

When the tub was empty, she grabbed the towel from where Grissom had left it and managed to get herself mostly dry. Her skin was still a little damp, with a few wet spots she couldn't reach, but it was better than nothing, she decided. She dropped the towel onto the toilet seat and reached for the clothes he'd brought her, shaking out the raggedy old t-shirt with a smile. It was her favorite shirt to just lounge around in, and she supposed she'd be doing a lot of lounging this week. She pulled the t-shirt over her head and reached for the next piece of clothing, but her hand hit the cool porcelain, not cloth. Had Grissom brought her only a t-shirt? She thought back to when she'd asked him to get her clothes to change into...

Damn! She'd just asked him to bring her a nightshirt, and he'd taken her at her word and brought only the shirt. She groaned loudly, then stopped, realizing that he might be able to hear her. Taking stock of her situation, she noted that she was sitting, still wet, in a bathtub, wearing only a t-shirt that came down to mid-thigh. _Now_ what the hell was she supposed to do?

Procrastinate! She was going to procrastinate, a lot. Leaning back in the tub - it was still wet, but it wasn't like she had many other options - she closed her eyes and tried to relax while searching her brain for a way out of this.

In the bedroom, Grissom looked at the bedside clock. Sara had been in the bathroom for more than an hour. Was that how long it took women to bathe? Should he be worried? If not now, when _should_ be start being worried? He decided to give her ten more minutes, then check on her.

x

x

x

Ten minutes later, he still hadn't heard anything from the bathroom. He stood up, steeled himself for the task ahead, then hesitated for a moment, hoping for a last-second reprieve and sighing heavily when there was none. He was going to have to bother her. She was probably just fine and she'd be annoyed that he barged in, but he had to check.

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door and listened for an answer, but none came. He tried again, this time saying, "Sara?" as he knocked. When she still didn't answer, he felt a trickle of fear start to seep through him. Had she passed out? Tried to stand up and fallen?

"Sara?" he said again as he turned the doorknob. "I'm coming in to check on you." He gave her another long moment to answer, then pushed the door open.

She had managed to pull on the t-shirt, he saw, and now she was lying in the empty bathtub with her eyes closed and her head leaning against the back wall. "Sara?" he whispered. Still no answer. He walked closer until he could stand at the edge of the tub and look down at her. She had fallen asleep, he realized. Not terribly surprising, given what had happened to her in the past few days. What _was_ surprising was that she was wearing a t-shirt which didn't cover nearly enough for him to avoid noticing that she wasn't wearing anything else.

He forced his eyes away. What was he going to do now? Leave her, wet and half-clothed, sleeping in the hard bathtub? She'd be freezing when she woke up! "Sara?" he tried, one last time. She didn't move.

He could go get the wheelchair, he supposed, and lift her into it to roll her to the couch. Or he could indulge himself and try to carry her; with her as deeply asleep as she was, she'd never know if it turned out he couldn't do it.

When else would he get a chance to touch her with no possibility of looking stupid? he thought, kneeling by the tub. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity. Carefully, he slid his hands under her and, somewhat clumsily, managed to stand up with her in his arms. She wasn't as heavy as he'd feared, but she wasn't light enough that he could easily carry her as far as the couch, either. He stood for a moment, looking back and forth at his options: the couch, two rooms away and a small target to get her onto; or the bed, a mere fifteen feet away, with a much larger area for him to drop her on. The bed it was!

He walked slowly, half of his brain concentrating on keeping a good grip on her wet body and the other half concentrating on how good the same wet body felt against him. She was so soft, he thought. His arms were pulling the wet t-shirt tighter around her and her figure was clearly outlined, much to his guilty delight.

He reached the bed with little trouble, although sooner than he'd have liked. Struggling to keep his muscles under control as he bent over, he lowered her to the bed as gently as he could and removed his hands. He stood there for a moment, not sure what to do with himself, then drew the blanket over her and stepped back. At least she'd be warm now.

Picking up a crossword puzzle he'd started that morning, he turned the desk chair so it faced the bed, sat down, and started working.

x

x

x

Sara slept quietly for almost an hour before she caught his attention with one of the squeaking noises he'd tried to describe to Brass earlier. The strident sigh she produced caught his attention and he looked up, over the top of his folded newspaper, and watched her, waiting to see if she would wake up.

She didn't open her eyes, only slumbered on for a few more minutes before moving again, her face contorted in pain even in her sleep. He observed two more cycles of this sleep-pain, feeling more and more uneasy, before he decided he couldn't watch it any more. He hated seeing her in pain; he had to do something.

Caught up in his concern for her, he didn't consider what future problems might be caused by his actions, just moved onto the bed and slid an arm under her neck, holding her head still. "Shh," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him, as he stroked her cheek. "It's ok." She moaned and twisted around again and, doing the only thing he could think of, he wrapped his other arm around her waist, pinning her body to the mattress and forcing her to stop moving.

_God,_ he thought as he looked down at her face, _she's so beautiful. So fragile._ He allowed himself to run his hand up her side, dragging the material of the t-shirt with it, and he couldn't help sneaking a glance at the body he'd uncovered. _Beautiful, _he thought again, pleased that she seemed be calmed by his touch. "Sara..." he breathed, laying his head on the pillow next to hers. As his eyes closed, he cupped her bare hip in his hand and added with almost no sound at all, "I wish I could touch you like this when you're awake."

x

x

x

She awoke about two hours later to find herself held tight against another body. Her nightshirt was crumpled up around her waist and she was sweating from being pressed up against his hot skin for hours. How had she gotten from that nice, warm bath to being cuddled up to Grissom in her bed?

One of his hands was cupping her bare hip, holding her to him, while the other lay under her head, fingers splayed out as he slept. She thought about this. She was half naked and in bed with Grissom, who was fully clothed. He was touching her in places he'd never even seen on her before.

She jerked in surprise when his fingers began to knead at the skin of her hip. "Gris?" she said after a second. He didn't answer, just skimmed his hand across her belly. "Grissom!" she gasped, covering and stopping his hand with one of hers. "Wake up." She pushed his hand away, dropping it on top of his own hip.

Grissom grunted and opened his eyes. "Wha?"

"You were...touching me."

He blinked. "I was?" Oh no. This was what he'd been afraid of ever since those bricks fell on her!

"I mean, not that I really have anything against it," she continued, not pulling away, "but uh...somehow this doesn't seem like the time."

His mind had caught up with his hands now and, panicked, he scrambled away from her. "I'm sorry!" He looked at her, looked away, looked back and jerkily pulled her shirt down to cover her. "Sorry," he said again, then a second later as her words penetrated his panic, "You don't have anything against it?"

"Not necessarily," she said with a shrug. "But right now I'd really rather have drugs. My leg is killing me."


	5. Tension

There was a long moment of silence, while Grissom processed that statement, before he stood up and gave her a small, relieved smile. "I can handle pain. Here's what we're going to do..."

Surprised by his sudden about-face, Sara just cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

"...I'm going to help you out to the couch, where you will lounge comfortably while I cook you something resembling breakfast. After I've done that, you will take a Vicodin-"

"Grissom..."

"You will take a Vicodin," he repeated. "And then you will eat what I cook. That way you won't get sick."

"What if I do?"

"Then I'll clean it up again," he said with a shrug. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Sara sighed. "Fine. Help me up." When Grissom blanched, she realized that she was still half-naked and added, "But first, get me a pair of pants. Third drawer."

He went to her dresser and was relieved to find that the selection of pants wasn't as distracting as what he'd found in her shirt drawer. After a few seconds of consideration, he selected a pair of pajama pants decorated with screen-printed fingerprints and held them up. "Where'd you find these?"

His interest was unexpected, and she had to stare at the pants for a few seconds before she could remember. "A specialty vendor on eBay. They sell forensics-themed stuff for the groupies among us."

"You're kidding."

"Nope," she said, holding out her hand. "It's true. Just give them to me." Grissom's scrutiny of her taste in clothing was making her uneasy.

He tossed the pants to her and headed for the door. "Call me when you've got them on."

"Grissom."

Damn, he'd forgotten. "Sorry," he told her, trying not to show his unease. Bunching the legs of the pants down like a pair of women's pantyhose, he slipped them over her ankles, turned his head away, and pulled them up her legs.

She put her hand on his when he reached the top of her thighs. "Thank you. I can do it from here."

Letting out an audible breath, Grissom stepped back. "Right." He waited as she inched the pants over her hips and tied the drawstrings at her waist, then moved toward her again. "Ready?"

"Mmhmm." The pain in her leg intensified when she moved to stand up, but she gritted her teeth, not willing to allow it to show. "Let's go."

A few minutes later, Grissom helped her balance as she lowered herself onto the couch. "Now stay there."

Giving him a tired look, she said, "Trust me, I'm not exactly up to running away right now."

"Good. Now, what do you want to eat?"

"Ugh, food."

"Sara," he said sternly as he headed for the kitchen.

"Toast, or something else basic. Nothing heavy, please."

He smiled. "So that means my famous omelets are out of the running?"

She shuddered theatrically. "Ugh, eggs."

"Toast it is," he said agreeably, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. "Butter? Jelly? Jam?"

Oddly enough, the thought of jam made her mouth water. "There's blackberry jam in the fridge."

As Grissom went through the motions of preparing her toast, she arranged the pillow behind her head and closed her eyes. "Grissom?" she said after a few seconds.

Looking up from his search of her refrigerator, he replied, "Yes?"

"Did you have to carry me out of the bathroom, before?"

He froze. Why did she want to know? Did she suspect something? "Uh, well..."

"You could have woken me up. I know I'm way too tall to be a featherweight."

In the face of such a challenge to his manhood, he could only respond one way: "I had no trouble. You're lighter than you think, I guess."

"So, you did carry me?"

He ignored her question, focusing on putting the jam on her toast instead.

"Grissom."

He put another layer of jam on the bread.

"Grissom!"

Given his continued silence, she wasn't expecting an answer, so she jumped in surprise when he slammed the knife down on the counter and growled, "Does it matter?"

Sara blinked, taken aback by his reaction. "Well, no, I guess it doesn't 'matter.' I just wanted to know."

"It's not important. Leave it."

"What's _wrong_ with you? You were in a perfectly good mood five minutes ago and now you can't even carry on a civilized conversation!"

"I'm sorry," he said quietly as he carried the plate toward her. "I'm a little...stressed."

"You don't have to stay here this whole week, you know. You could switch off with Nick or Catherine, or you could ask someone to take over completely." Sitting up, she accepted the toast and took a bite. "Mmm, it's been a long time since I tasted this jam."

Taking advantage of her forced silence while she chewed, he sat down on the edge of the couch and looked down at her. "I'm not leaving you here with someone else. I'm the one who hurt you; I'm the one who'll take care of you."

Swallowing hastily, she glared at him. "I'm not some form of penance, you know. You don't _have_ to take care of me just because you think this is your fault. Which it's not," she added.

He sighed. "I didn't say I thought you were a penance. And I can handle- Mmph!"

His protest was cut off when she shoved the rest of the slice of toast she'd been eating into his mouth. "Stop it. No one - least of all me - is going to think less of you if you don't want to be stuck here with me for days on end."

He could only glare at her while he chewed and swallowed the bread. "I _do_ want to," he finally protested.

Sara rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. No one, no matter how wonderful a person that are, wants to be stuck playing nurse if they don't have to be."

"I don't mind."

"Then why are you so freaked out?"

"I'm not--" He was interrupted by her snort of derision. After a few seconds, he sighed. "You make me nervous."

"Nervous? How do I make you _nervous_?"

"Sara..."

"How do I make you nervous?" she demanded.

"You just do! I'm not...used to...being near you."

Sara let herself flop back on the couch with a huff, breaking eye contact. "And whose fault is that?"

Pushed as far as he was willing to go, he set the plate down on the coffee table and stood up. "I'm not discussing this now. Eat your toast."

"I don't want it," she said petulantly.

"Eat it anyway, because in five minutes you're taking a Vicodin."

"I'm not."

"You promised," he reminded her.

"Yeah, well, that was before I knew how much I make you 'nervous'," she said, drawing out the word _nervous_ mockingly. "Who knows, you might be so 'nervous' that you give me the wrong dose or something."

"This is not negotiable," he said flatly, turning away and heading for the bedroom. "I'll be back in a few minutes, and you _will _take the painkiller when I come back."

"No!" she retorted, but found herself answered only by the sound of the bedroom door slamming.

With a sigh, she took another bite of the toast.

When Grissom returned five minute later, having splashed some water on his face and slowed his pulse to below 95, he found Sara on the couch, arms crossed, trying to glare at him and only partially succeeding - he was sure he could also see a smile trying to work its way onto her face.

Watching him approach, she held out her hand for the medication and said, "Remember, you're cleaning it up if this makes me sick."

"I know." He handed her the bottle of pills and went to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. "But I bet you won't get sick, anyway."

"Wanna bet?" she asked, taking the glass he offered her.'

"No way."

She smirked, swallowed the pills, and handed the water back to him. "So, uh...how are we going to keep ourselves occupied for five more days of this house arrest?"

"Um..." He looked around the room. "Read?"

Sara sighed. "This is going to be a long week."

x

x

x

"We could play Scrabble," Grissom suggested a few hours later, spotting the game on her bookshelf.

Sara looked up from her book and followed his eyes. "We could," she agreed.

"Do you want to?"

She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. It would be rude to kick the crap out of the person who's taking care of me."

"You think you'd win?" Grissom said, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

"I'm the Scrabble champion of the night shift, Gris. Of course I'll win!"

"But then," Grissom said as he retrieved the game and set it on the coffee table, "you realize I never competed in those contests."

"So?"

"So...you have no idea if I'm good or not," he pointed out as he unfolded the board.

She grinned and grabbed the velvet bag full of letter tiles. "I'm willing to take that chance."

"Are you, now?" he said with raised eyebrows. "In that case, let's play." He reached into the bag and pulled out seven letters, setting them onto the wooden rack in front of him.

"Oh yeah," Sara said confidently as she fished for her own letters. "You're going down."

She had just finished arranging them on her rack when someone buzzed her apartment.

Giving Grissom an expectant look, Sara said, "Go get it. I'll just stay here and...plot."

"Oh, no you don't!" He snatched both tile holders and set them out of her reach. "No extra time for you."

She gave him a dark look. "Just get the door."

"Yes ma'am."

x

x

x

Grissom wasn't surprised to find Brass standing outside Sara's door, but he didn't expect to also see Catherine, who was standing next to the detective and looking impatient. "Let us in," she ordered. "Sara's probably dying for the company of a female."

Brass just shrugged as Catherine pushed past him. "Running interference," he explained at Grissom's questioning look. "Plus, I did tell Sara I'd come by and visit a lot."

"You did?" Grissom asked, giving Brass a confused look as the man brushed past him and entered the apartment.

"Yeah." Brass turned toward the couch, where Sara was giving Catherine a wary look. "How ya feeling?"

Sara, who was starting to feel just a tad loopy as her most recent dose of Vicodin kicked in, shrugged. "Alive."

"You must feel disgusting," Catherine said, fingering a piece of Sara's hair. "You haven't had a shower since...when? The day you came home from the hospital?"

"Um...well, I…"

"She doesn't look that dirty to me," Brass cut in when Sara just continued to stammer. "She probably hasn't been exerting herself all that much, given that she can't move off the couch."

Grissom snatched at the lifeline Brass had provided. "Yeah, she really hasn't moved much. No sweating."

"No sweating," Sara echoed. "I'm not dirty."

"Are you sure?" Catherine said, frowning. "If I were you I'd be desperate for a bath, even if I wasn't completely filthy."

Sara cut her eyes to the side, giving Grissom a desperate look. Stepping forward, he used the only distraction he could think of: "_So!_ Who wants coffee?"

While Grissom hid in the kitchen with the brewing coffee, Sara was stuck in the living room with two curious friends. Brass spotted the Scrabble board and, nodding toward it, asked, "Did you guys play?"

"We were about to, but you guys interrupted us."

"Ohh," Brass said suggestively, poking Catherine in the arm. "We _interrupted _them."

"Did we, now?" Catherine responded, eyebrows raised.

"Guys!" Sara protested, throwing a leftover bit of toast at Brass's laughing face. "Stop it; I'm too drugged to fight back."

"Drugged?" Brass asked with sudden interest. "So you're taking the Vicodin now?"

"Yeah," she admitted.

"How the hell did he finally talk you into that?"

"Bribery and begging," Grissom answered, overhearing the question as he carried three cups of coffee out of the kitchen.

"Ah."

"Typical," Catherine said, rolling her eyes.


	6. Resolution

When Catherine and Brass were gone, Sara met Grissom's eyes and smiled slyly. "Game on."

"Five minutes. I'm going to make you some tea first," he told her, and before she could respond he was gone.

"How domestic of you!" she remarked when he handed her the steaming mug a few minutes later.

"I try." He sat down on the couch, leaving a generous amount of space between them, and looked down at the game board. "So, you want to make the first move or should I?"

There was a uncomfortable pause as they both tried to pretend there was no double entendre in his words.

"You go first," Sara finally said. "Take the initiative."

"Right." He studied his tiles for a minute, then smiled. Placing an _S_ on the center square, he added _L-I-N-K-Y_, carefully aligning each tile. "Double letter score on the _K_!"

_"Slinky? _Brand names aren't allowed," she reminded him.

He selected six new tiles from the bag. "It's not a brand name. It's an adjective. As in, 'a slinky dress'?"

"Oh." Wondering why she hadn't thought of that before opening her mouth, she directed her attention to her tiles. "Aha!" she exclaimed a few seconds later. "Building on that theme..." Underneath the _S_ from Grissom's first word, she added _A-T-I-N-Y_.

"A _satiny_, _slinky_ dress, huh?"

"Exactly."

"Hmm." He eyed his new selection of letters, noticing that it presented nothing as simple as his first hand had.

"You going to stare at the board all day," Sara teased after a few seconds, "or are you going to make a word?"

In response, he put an _F _three squares above the _Y_ in _slinky_. "If we're going to keep to a theme..." he said with a grin, adding an _O _and an _X_ to make _foxy_, "then this is going to be an interesting game."

"_Foxy_ can't describe a dress, Grissom."

"Maybe not, but it can describe the woman in the dress," he said, keeping his eyes on the board. "And make sure you write down that the _X_ was double-scored."

"Oh, so we're going to play like that, are we?" she said, challenge evident in her voice. "Fine." She plunked down _A-L-O-O _to the left of the _F_ on the board. "If she can be _foxy_, then she can also be _aloof_. And that's a double word score."

"Indeed she can," he said coolly. "And also..." He put an _S-C-A-R_ before the _Y_ of _satiny_.

"_Scary_? You've got to be kidding me! You can't use that to describe a woman wearing a dress."

"No?" he asked with raised eyebrows. "How about if the woman's _out _of the dress?"

Sara opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. After a few seconds, she admitted, "You have a point, there."

"Of course I do."

"But what happens when she sees that he thinks she's scary?" Sara said, laying down _O-B_ under the _S_ of _scary_. "Double on the _B_, so there."

"The woman shouldn't be so upset," Grissom advised. "Being scary doesn't always equal being repulsive. Maybe he doesn't mean any harm." Without further explanation, he built _contrite_ off of the _T_ in _satiny_. "Bingo."

Sara's eyes narrowed. She wasn't sure if there were really two levels to this game or if her overactive brain was just reading too much into things. Where should she go from here? "So he's contrite, but he still thinks she's scary? Doesn't sound too great for her. And don't gloat over your score, it's rude." She put _R-U-E-L _under the _C _of _contrite_.

"He's not trying to hurt her," he said, scanning the board. "Maybe he's just unsure about what to do with her." Giving her an inscrutable look, he lined up _C-H-I-C-K-E_ before the _N_ of _contrite_. "Double word."

"You have _got_ to be cheating! There's no way you could be getting all those doubles just by luck!"

Grissom smiled. "Planning, Sara. You have to plan ahead if you really want to rack up the points." He nodded back to the board. "Your turn."

She sighed and examined her options. The board was getting crowded and her letters sucked, so it took her more than a minute to spot the right move. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she spelled _K-I-L-L-J-O-Y _off of _slinky_. "One person's chicken is another person's killjoy, so double word _that_, buddy!"

"Forty-two points," he said, giving her a look of approval. "Keep going like this and you just might catch me."

"Hah, you'll never allow that. You'll figure out a way to block me."

"Perhaps." After thinking for a moment, he slowly put _O-V-E _after the _L _of her newest word. "It's a frightening thing," he told her, staring at the board but not pointing out the triple-letter score his _V_ rested on. "Maybe he doesn't want to hurt her."

"Maybe he needs to stop worrying so much about what he's doing and start trusting her." Without looking at him, she spelled _F-A-I-T-H _off of _chicken_. "Triple."

With almost no pause, he laid _R-I-S _before the _K_ in _chicken_. "Too many things could go wrong."

She spelled _C-L-U-E-S _just as quickly, saying, "Evidence doesn't lie. You should listen to it when it's there."

"You're right," he said, sliding in _T, R, _and another _T_ to spell _truth_. "But you have to remember, he's human and thus prone to failure."

"He doesn't have to be perfect, you know. She knows him and she knows how the world works." She built _R-E-A-L-I-T-Y _off of his _truth_.

"Maybe she doesn't know reality as well as she thinks," he said, laying an _S _on a triple-word square and spelling _S-K-E-W-E-D_.

A small smile crossed her face. "How would he know?"

"He understands her."

_P-R-O-O-F_, she spelled. "You'll have to present some of this," she said, gesturing to the letters she had just put down, "before I buy that. Oh, and that's a triple-word score."

Taking his eyes completely away from the board for the first time in the game, he studied her face, searching for a hint of what she wanted. When he couldn't find one, he dropped his eyes again and spelled out _H-O-W_, then looked up at her and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

" 'How,' what?" she said, unable to interpret the look on his face.

"How would he prove it?"

Sara blinked deliberately, trying to break the hold his eyes seemed to have on hers. "He'd have to be honest with her, for one thing. He'd have to be willing to talk to her and let her talk to him."

None of those things sounded outside his capabilities. "Is that it?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It would help if he didn't think she was scary. If he enjoyed spending time with her."

"Anything else?"

She tried not to show the unease this conversation was causing. "Well, he would have to find her attractive, too."

"Attractive," he echoed. "And how would he go about proving all those things?"

"I don't know; I'm not a man," she said stiffly.

"You have no idea?"

"He'd have to do his own thinking when it came to those things, not rely on her to provide the answers."

"What if he's hesitant to try those things without knowing if she'll be open to them?"

"You...I mean _he_...could always just try it; depend on his intuition to tell him if she's listening."

"So you think he should just...jump in with both feet?"

She gave him a small smile. "It's kind of hard to jump in with only one foot. It's got to be either both feet or no feet."

"Both feet," he murmured; then, with new confidence, "Sara?"

"What?" she asked, her interest caught by the change in his tone.

"I did carry you before. Out of the bathroom, I mean."

She nodded. "I kind of figured. But thanks for being willing to tell me."

"Don't you want to know why I did it?"

"Uh...well, do you want to tell me?"

He shrugged and leaned back against the couch. "Yes, but still...it's kind of embarrassing."

"How is it embarrassing?" she asked, slumping back too, so that her position matched his.

"Because I didn't have to do it. Like you said, I could have woken you up."

"Ok." She elbowed him gently, trying to shake him out of his reticence. "So why _did_ you do it?"

He couldn't hold back a rueful smile. "Because I wanted to, and there was no one around to notice if I looked stupid."

"Why would you look stupid?"

"Well...what if I dropped you?"

"I probably would have woken up and kicked you with my good leg. But that doesn't involve you looking stupid, at least until after I kick you."

"I would have felt stupid, anyway."

"Well, you just told me the truth, and you still don't look stupid. So relax!"

He cocked his head to the side, unsure of her meaning, and said, "That's it?"

"That's what?" she replied, confused by his sudden departure from the topic of kicking.

"That's all you have to say about me carrying you for no reason other than because I wanted to?"

"Uh...yeah." She twisted around so her back was against the arm of the couch and she could lay her leg straight across the cushions. "You were afraid I'd faint or something?"

"No, I was thinking more along the lines of more kicking."

"Well, I promise not to kick you, ok?" She paused, looking thoughtful, and added, "Not to kick you _for this_, I mean. I reserve the right to kick you for other, future things."

He smiled weakly and tried to think of something else to say that would sound good, but before he came up with anything she shocked him by saying, "I was only wearing a t-shirt."

Gulp. "Yeah..."

"It didn't cover much. You must have...looked at me."

"No," he denied hastily.

"You didn't?"

"I wouldn't do that to you," he said, perfectly aware that he was lying through his teeth.

"You touched me. When I woke up, your arm was wrapped around me. But you didn't look?"

"I, uh...well, I mean, I might have caught a glimpse, but I didn't purposely _look_ at you..."

"Why not?"

He could only stare at her for long seconds. "Why...didn't I look at you?" he finally managed.

"Yeah."

"Because...well, because it would be...crude. Inappropriate."

"To look at me?"

"To look at you without your permission."

She thought about that for a moment. "So if I gave you my permission, you would have no problem looking at me?"

He blinked, taken aback. "Uh..."

"If you're not interested, you can say so," she assured him, trying to sound unconcerned.

"Interested?" he parroted.

She looked at him warily. "Am I jumping to conclusions, here?"

Completely off-balance, he hesitantly asked, "What conclusions?"

She rolled her eyes. "Never mind. I guess I was."

"No, answer me. _What _conclusions?"

"It's nothing, Grissom."

Leaning forward, he met her eyes and said earnestly, "I obviously offended you with my lack of a response to your question, so it would be really helpful if you could just give me a prompt...so I know for next time?"

She sighed. His argument made sense, but she hated having to open herself up and risk getting nothing in return again. "I thought maybe you were interested. In...me. It seemed like it, when we woke up and during the game just now. But since I obviously just leapt miles ahead of whatever you were thinking, I figured out now that I was wrong."

"But you weren't wrong!" he blurted.

"I wasn't?"

He shook his head. "No. It's just that you caught me by surprise with your question."

There was a long silence during which their eyes locked, each of them trying to read the thoughts of the other.

When Sara spoke it was in a mere whisper. "So," she said hesitantly, "you...are?"

He nodded, but remained quiet for a few more seconds, scanning her face for signs of...anything. Finally, without moving from his position at the opposite end of the couch from her, he said, "I looked. I'd look again. I'd probably shamelessly examine any part of you I was allowed to - mental _or _physical."

"Oh." She smiled. "In that case...what part do you want to see today?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: Word and letter placement/scores should be correct (yes, I'm a dork and broke out a copy of the board to build their game), but for the sole purpose of making my life easier, I disregarded how many tiles of each letter are actually in a Scrabble set and used as many of each as I needed to.

A/N 2: Is this the end? I really don't know. I feel like I've reached a resolution point where the original storyline is finished. I could keep going, but it would probably metastasize like MPL ended up doing, so I think for now…

THE END


End file.
